January 3, 1971

'We Imagined an Eden'

By STUDS TERKEL

enturies ago, in 1950, when television was young, there was a Chicago program, "Studs' Place." My three colleagues were superb performers. "Studs' Place" was something of a small restaurant and tavern. Our heroes were blue-collars. Though an attempt at reality was made- the players created their own dialogue, and critics as well as audiences accepted it as "true to life"- it was merely the stuff of dreams, sweet rather than dark. We had imagined an Eden. It was a place of trust and worth and unforgivable innocence. Brecht would have roared. The Fall, after all, had occurred some time ago.

Not too much damage was done to the American psyche by "Studs' Place." Little pleasures were offered; no terrors, no fears, no rage; merely the sunny side of our nature was touched. The show's saving grace was, in the words of an elderly black woman, its "feeling tone." Yet, it was not quite "true to life."

Still, the medium was tentative and, during those early days, in the hands of creative spirits- writers, actors and directors. With astonishing suddenness, it was transformed into history's most powerful sales force. It quickly became sophisticated, seared, and according to formula. It overwhelmed truth with facts. Trivia and profundity were indistinguishable. Feeling was overwhelmed by ersatz excitement. Images on the screen became our surrogates, as men and women. Fraudulent, of course. The sell- hard and soft, but in all cases, often- was what it was all about. We had become Strasbourg geese, stuffed until our livers swelled. The TV commercial had come into its own. And still we play "Let's Pretend."

Consider the phenomenon, euphemistically called the talk show- the carsoncavettfrostsusskindgriffin hour. Jacques Tati once described such hosts as "nervous men, who rattled papers on tables." On these programs have appeared Nobel laureates, distinguished journalists and scientists as well as show-biz darlings. Authors, too- but more of this later.

Do you recall what was said by Buckminster Fuller or Zsa Zsa Gabor on any of these programs? Unless you are blessed with the power of total recall, the comments, profound or trivial, have long since slipped your mind. Was it something about more with less or a recent swain's gift of diamonds? But, oh, how you remember those commercials. That is the name of the game. It is the oil that moves the Amazing American Dream Machine.

Carsoncavettfrostsusskindgriffin are not to be faulted. How is any man to be autonomous if one ear is toward the guest and one eye toward the floor director, who signals, Time for the Detergent? "We'll be right back," the host smiles faintly, long having overcome his original discomfort. But we never get back. Something has happened to our psyche during the break. Buckminster Fuller, perhaps, was saying something to us, millions of us; something humane and eloquent. Yet, it was lost forever to our sense of feeling, as a deodorant commercial- or was it for a detergent or a cigarette or all three?- overcame. Yet, in our innocence- feigned or real, it doesn't matter- we pretended awareness was being offered. No wonder the polysyllabic nonsense of McLuhan is the New Testament of ad men.

As for those lost lambs, authors of just-published books, they are led, as we are, down the garden path. Unless the work is a cheap shot or embarrassingly bad. Jacqueline Susann has undoubtedly benefited from such exposure, but I would not recommend the experience to Eudora Welty.

Consider the matter of "feeling tone." As the commentator on the evening news program details the horror of My Lai or Kent State, a cute little girl with a cute little smile and a cute little nose wrinkle appears. She sells a car and informs you, in effect, what is really important. Is it any wonder one auto show outdraws scores of Earth Day celebrations?

In no way are these reflections casting blame on the actors- become- peddlers. Unfortunately, even the best of them measure their success by their residuals. It is a process of humiliation. All are demeaned- the hero of the commercial (in the past, exclusively pear-shaped toned; now joined by the "blue-collar" type), the live guests and the audience. We are all diminished in thought and feeling.

Yet we know the potential of television. It has the unprecedented power to reveal and illuminate our human as well as our social condition. This is a daring and terrifying project that NET is attempting - starting Wednesday night at 8:30 on Channel 13- to reveal "The Great American Dream Machine" sans oil.

In the brief segment involving myself, the scene will again be something of a small restaurant and tavern in Chicago. With a difference. An actual one. In place of my gifted colleagues at "Studs' Place," my companions this time will be "ordinary" people. Gifted and bewildered, each in his own way. Their dreams revealed, in tavern argument, will encompass fear and rage as well as, I hope, trust and worth. And, please God, a touch of awareness for all of us.

One thing is certain: they will not be types, "hard hat" or "militant black" or "hippie." They will be persons. In a revelatory attempt, we may stumble and fall, but we'll sure as hell try.